


Magic on the Links

by orphan_account



Category: Golf Stories - Wodehouse, Secret Garden - Burnett
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Crossover, Golf, Multi, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, over 1000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-16
Updated: 2008-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Oldest Member gives sage advice to star-crossed lovers, but it turns out he's misread the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic on the Links

It was only a matter of time (said the Oldest Member) before Colin Craven came to me with his troubles. Most young men do, in these parts. He was a pleasant young Englishman, come here to live after the war, selecting our little town as a comfortable outpost to what he called his scientific explorations. He'd been twice to the jungle by the age of 22, and had his mind set on the Arctic. He'd also installed his old father and young cousin Mary Lennox in the vicinity, to both their visible comfort, for Miss Lennox was an avid if hopeless golfer, and Craven Senior liked to be wheeled around the links whenever his health permitted.

I soon suspected that young Craven had taken a fancy to his pretty cousin, and had noted with some concern the arrival in the neighbourhood of the cousins' old friend Dickon Sowerby. If Craven was an amiable young man, with just a slight tendency to gloat when hitting a pipterino on the links, and to peevishness when his putt missed the hole by a few inches, Sowerby could hardly be blamed for either pride or vanity – the most charming lad that ever lived, if also a hopeless foozler on the links. It was not long before Miss Lennox was seen arm in arm with Sowerby, leaving Cousin Colin to languish in the clubhouse, or practice putting while they crawled their joyous way through the holes in the careful 24-handicap fashion.

It was then, as I say, with very little surprise that I saw young Craven approach me at the porch, where I was resting my eyes after a round on the links (for these were my younger days, when I still went around every now and then), a troubled look in his eye. After a few false starts regarding the weather and the greens committee, he went into the crux of the matter, confessing, in as many words, that he was in love.

'And you have a rival,' I surmised.

'Do I! The most charming rival that ever lived – and one I can't well hate, either. It is only natural that they should be drawn together. We played together a great deal as children, you know. I never did see two people more suited for one another.' And he hung his head, a tear glistening at the end of a rich and rather girlish set of curling eyelashes.

'May I be so bold as to assume you mean your cousin and your friend Sowerby?'

'You may,' said Craven, and kicked a beetle moodily. 'Oh, what am I to do? They're both hopeless at golf, and know it too – there are no faults I could point out in either that the other would not be well aware of; indeed, there is not a thing I can use to drive a wedge between them, and should I, really, just to fulfil my selfish love? I'm beginning to think I should just throw myself into my explorations, run off into the Arctic or somewhere in a mad dash and never return.'

I had detected this strain of melodrama in young Craven before, and was not overly alarmed. 'Calm yourself,' I advised. 'It is not over until the wedding bells ring. Put your case to the girl and let her tell you straight where you stand; she's not impartial to you, if I am any judge.'

'Put it to Mary?' There came in his eyes a thoughtful look. 'By Jove, I do think it's worth a try. Jolly good advice, dear sir, what-what? I could not be more grateful, if it actually works out. I shall dash off and ask her right away. Pip-pip!' With these mostly unintelligible but no doubt well-intended words he sauntered off, and I believe I could see a touch of spring in his step.

I saw very little of the three of them since, as they soon took off to the west, cousins, friend, father and all, for the latter's health. I was therefore not privy to the events that led to this affair's eventual conclusion, for cousin Mary came back to our little town Mrs Sowerby, her new husband in tow, and her cousin, in a surprise twist, as gay as a nightingale in spring.

I made some modest inquiry, therefore, for one likes to know how things sort themselves out. A selfish desire, to be sure – should not the sight of one's fellow man's happiness be enough? – but a natural one. Upon grasping the thread of my overtures, young Craven let out one of the gay silvery ones. 'Oh, but it worked out well in the end, what?' he said. 'It all has to do with magic. I'll explain some time, I'm sure, it is a little complicated, and we're taking father out on the links. You'd be surprised how he's improved. Toodle-pip!'

(Here the sage paused, and a dark cloud came over his brow.)

I perhaps should never have started this story, for if the rumours I later heard about this "magic" of theirs are correct, it's hardly a subject for tender ears or civilised conversation. Young Craven may have spent a little too much time among savages, as had Miss Lennox (for I hear she was raised as a young child in India, by negligent parents), and Dickon Sowerby was a wild moor child, or so I heard. In any case, it was not an orthodox solution, and perhaps upon beginning this story I was actually thinking of a completely different story. Did I ever tell you about Jane Packard, William Bates, and Rodney Spelvin? Now, William Bates was a young man built along the lines of a lorry, and having much the same disposition…

-

At that very moment, almost directly south about the length of a continent, a space had been cut in thick vegetation, the grass mowed down to an uneven but serviceable green. A cry of 'Fore!' occasionally rent the air, cutting through the chittering and shrieking of native animals, and on the wind a whiff of tea and buns could be detected among the fresh green smells of the jungle.

'You've not played a real hazard till you played it here,' said Colin cheerfully for the third time that day, and Mary and Dickon, equally cheerful, agreed. Their game had improved greatly in the last 20 years. They put it all down to practice, good living, and suppleness of wrist, as well as magic, of course. They'd not forget about magic. It was what had once brought roses to Mary's cheeks, after all, and Colin on his feet, and Dickon, eventually, to bed between the cousins, who'd both been so madly besotted with him they'd tied themselves into knots with jealousy. Magic was a wonderful unknotter, once you gave into it. It brought forth their children and grandchildren, and if it was a little complicated, and there'd been more than a little trouble with the genteel set, all in all it could not have turned out better.


End file.
